


Sunshine of My Life: Or, How Thomasyn Cousland Stopped Being a Nervous Wreck Around Alistair

by CptEmie



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Minor Character Death, Post-Coital Cuddling, Pregnancy, Puppy Love, Reunion, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Second Kiss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CptEmie/pseuds/CptEmie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fic-lets and drabble prompts about fledgling Warden Thomasyn Cousland and her companions, but mostly about the progression of her relationship with Alistair. Re-ordered so that they are now in chronological order!</p>
<p>As always, thanks for reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tears

             _The seconds in which she stood and stared at him – sword drawn, shield high, face twisted with worry, rage, fear, concern, and a thousand other things – they seemed to go on forever. She dimly registered the tears streaming down both of their faces and the sound of her mother shouting her names from the doorway._

_“Go,” he insisted again, the single syllable breaking his voice in a wrenching crack. “You have to go.”_

_He couldn’t afford to cry. He had soldiers to command. A castle to defend. Lives to save. But he couldn’t save her if she kept standing there like that. “Thomasyn…” his voice cracked again. That wasn’t nearly as commanding as he wanted it to be._

_“Rory…” she breathed his name and leapt forward: feline reflexes giving her the timing needed to slip between his arms and haul him down by his collar, dragging him into a kiss._

_Their first kiss._

_Their only kiss._

            Thomasyn tried not to be heard as she rode behind Duncan, stifling her tears and mopping them up with the handkerchief she kept tucked in her sleeve. This was all she had left of them now: her father’s handkerchief, a ring her mother had passed down to her, the throwing daggers tucked in her boots that Fergus had had made for her as a Name day gift almost two years ago: memories of fleeting moments stolen from her by a single man’s greed and ambition.

            “We can rest a moment, if you need.” Duncan said, never turning his head.

            “No.” She wiped her nose one last time and tucked the square of cloth away. “No. Thank you.”

            He did turn this time, carefully examining her: mottled skin, a dusting of freckles across her nose, midnight black hair and eyes muddied from crying. “I am sorry.” His voice was all sincerity. He had nothing but sympathy for this child – for she truly was a child – dwarfed by even the horse she rode on. Most of her family murdered, her home all but destroyed. “Your parents were the very best kind of people, my lady. They will not be forgotten.”

            She hiccupped a kind of muffled cry and a few extra tears tumbled down her cheeks. “Thank you.”

            “I do not wish to pry,” Duncan kept a steady eye on her. “But you were clearly quite close to your parents.”

            “Yes.” _Keep it together, Thomasyn,_ she thought to herself. _No one wants to make a sobbing teenager into a knight._ “My mother and I are the stubborn sort, but my father would have brought me the moon on a silver platter if I had asked him.” She shuddered at the wave of hurt that crashed through her. “Would have,” she murmured again.

            Duncan tugged gently on his horse’s reins and sidled up to her, reaching for her arm. They were riding in full armour and his breastplate shone in the afternoon sun, nearly blinding her. “Take your time to grieve before we reach Ostagar,” he advised. “I do not know when you will have a chance again.”


	2. Midnight

            When Alistair peaked into her tent to rouse her for their watch, she was already sitting up on her bedroll. “Coming,” she mumbled, crawling slowly towards the opening in the canvas. Her face was pulled into a scrunch, lips thinned with pursing and eyes narrowed only on the path in front of her. She followed Alistair back to the fire without thinking.

            He wasn’t really sure what to do. They had been travelling together for about a month now, assembling a little ragtag group of adventurers along the way. In that time he had seen mostly the authoritative side of her: the teryn’s daughter that was used to issuing commands and being heeded. She was kind and compassionate, of course, but always in charge. It was only in the last week or so that she had started to let him see her softer side.

            And it was only him that she allowed to see it. Neither of them really trusted the witch, even though Thomasyn did respect her knowledge of the arcane and obscure. And there was something about the bard that had joined them in Lothering that Thomasyn found slightly unsettling. The qunari was an astounding warrior but not a conversationalist by any means. And so, they had each other. In the caverns of the ancient Elven ruins deep in the Brecilian Forest (on the edge of which they had just made camp) they had stopped to rest while Leliana and Morrigan went rooting around the adjoining rooms looking for supplies and relics. Thomasyn had sat down on her haunches against the far wall and Alistair paced over to join her, laying down at her feet, glad for the respite. They had sat there looking at each other for a minute before Thomasyn had shot out a hand and slid her fingers between the lip of his trousers and the end of his splintmail chest piece, tickling his side with an unforgiving enthusiasm. Alistair had squealed and writhed so furiously that Leliana and Morrigan came running – sure that the Wardens were under attack. Thomasyn had snapped back to her leadership face and insisted that they were just sharing a joke. It was things like that they had begun to share: little moments of friendship building in the face of everything they were facing together.

            So now, as she stared stone-faced into the fire, Alistair knew she was only letting her guard down because they were alone. It meant she was willing to share her thoughts, maybe not eager, but willing. He crossed his legs as he sat down a few feet from her, offering her a piece of cheese from his pack. She took it gratefully and munched in silence for a second before he decided to be nosy. “You’re upset,” he observed.

            “A bit,” she confessed, still staring into the fire. She knew he was looking at her without even glancing over. She could feel his eyes.

            “Want to talk about it?” He shuffled over a few inches nearer to her.

            “Um…” she flicked her eyes over, catching the concerned furrow swept across Alistair’s brow. _Maker’s mercy he was just the sweetest…_ She couldn’t hide the little smile that accompanied the thought. And then the guilt that went with it. “I don’t know if you want to hear it,” she admitted finally.

            “Sure I do,” he was always ready to listen to her. That much had been established.

            “It’s silly,” she insisted, looking back into the flame.

            “I like silly,” he was pressing, but he didn’t care.

            Thomasyn sighed, dropping her face into her hands with an exaggerated groan. “Today’s my name day,” she said into her palms.

            Alistair opened his mouth for a cheery reply, but immediately snapped his jaw shut. Of course she wasn’t pleased about it – practically her entire family had been killed in cold blood barely six weeks ago. He shifted over about a foot and gently laid one hand on her shoulder. He didn’t really know what to say, but he knew she wouldn’t have brought it up at all if she didn’t need a little comfort.

            In all reality, she wasn’t even sure why she had told him. She just felt like someone else needed to know. The occasion had always been marked by a grand party and a dinner that lasted for hours, with all of her favourite foods spread out along their enormous banquet tables. Her friends would all have been there – she would have danced with whomever she pleased – Fergus, of course, because her brother was a marvelous dancer; and Rory, because Rory…

            She couldn’t afford to think about him. The guilt was still too fresh.

            He died so that she could live. He stayed in that hall until the last, sword at the ready and eyes flashing with valor. It made her stomach sink, the way the rest of her fluttered when she looked at Alistair, knowing that it was a gross betrayal of everything Rory had promised her.

            The air was too tense for his liking. “How old are you?” He asked hesitantly. These were little bits of information that they had never shared.

            “Nineteen,” the answer was automatic. She was still staring off, not looking at him.

            “I’m twenty,” he murmured, dropping his chin a little to watch his free hand play with a flower stem sticking out of the dirt.

            His hand burned on her shoulder. Neither of them was wearing armour, they were just sitting next to each other in breeches and tunics, and through the thin cotton she could feel the heat of his hand on her skin. She shrugged out of his reach and scooted slightly to look at him. “We don’t know that much about each other,” she wasn’t steady enough to hold his gaze, so she settled on watching him play with the flower that he had just plucked from the ground. “I’m disposed to fix a little of that tonight, if you’re willing.” She needed this. Needed to talk about it. Needed to not have her family – her life – holed up inside her.

            He tilted his head up and caught her eyes. Her face looked sad and tired, but her eyes were filled with boundless optimism. It was one of the things he liked so much about her. “I’m not horribly interesting,” he joked, “but I’d like to know about you.”


	3. Exhaustion

            The road to Orzammar seemed endless. Ferelden was rocky, hilly, uneven, and hell on Thomasyn’s feet, but Maker take her if she was going to stop now. It was just past sunset and getting to be time to make camp. Leliana was singing brightly: a tavern song about young love, if she knew the bard’s habits at all. She trotted along at Alistair’s side, so sunny it was starting to annoy.

            “I thought religion discouraged happiness,” Morrigan griped. Good, at least Thomasyn wasn’t the only one she was bothering.

            At that, the bard grabbed Alistair’s hand and swung it back and forth, spinning herself around and using him as an achor

            “Leliana!” Thomasyn heard the ferocity in her voice before she even felt it bubbling inside her. She cleared her throat and tried to keep it to a simmer. “Let’s make camp.” She nodded to the clearing just the other side of the river they had been following.

            Though she looked slightly startled, Leliana smirked a little. “As you say,” she acquiesced, and made off toward the clearing with her pack, giggling as she went. Morrigan followed, spurred mostly by the fact that Pilot, Thomasyn’s mabari, was nipping at her heels. _Maker_ , how Morrigan hated that dog.

            “Everything…okay?” Alistair had hung back to stand with her. Thumbs tucked into the arms of his pack and twiddling his other fingers, he gave the impression of an impatient child waiting to be told he could go play.

            Thomasyn let out a heavy sigh, nearly groaning as the air pushed out of her lungs. “Yes,” she grunted, head hanging down to her chest.

            “Are you sure?” He had every reason to doubt her – she had practically screamed at Leliana for no apparent reason.

            “I…she just…” Thomasyn squeezed her eyes closed and grunted with frustration. “I’ll go apologize in a second,” she said finally. Alistair trotted off to help make camp, ultimately letting his attention wander when Pilot wanted to play fetch.  _Andraste preserve me, I need to get a hold of myself_ , Thomasyn shook her head roughly and gingerly made her way over to Leliana’s half-pitched tent. "Leliana, I –”

            “You don’t need to say anything,” the young sister shook her head and her hair swished artfully around her face. “I understand entirely.” She was smiling broadly.

            “You do?” How was that possible when Thomasyn herself wasn’t actually sure she knew why she had gotten upset? She had an idea of course, but it was ridiculous and obviously an overreaction.

            “Come,” Leliana patted the large tree stump beside the mouth of her tent and sat down, indicating that Thomasyn should do the same. Thomasyn tucked herself onto the edge of the stump and held her knees self-consciously. For a moment they were silent.

            “You should tell him,” Leliana said.

            Thomasyn nearly fell off her perch. “I – what?”

            “You should tell him,” Leliana repeated. “That you like him.”

            The Warden felt her entire face flush – hot and deep, deep red. “I don’t know what you mean,” she mumbled.

            “Of course you do,” her companion giggled. “He likes you, too, you know.”

            The flush extended to the tips of her ears and down to her neck. She couldn’t stop the smile creep across her face, and she sheepishly dropped her chin to her chest. “He does?”

            “It’s obvious,” Leliana’s voice was thick with amusement.

Though they were only a few years apart, the bard’s life had been far different than Thomasyn’s and her experiences had made her much more worldly. She could perceive things in the others that Thomasyn was completely oblivious to. But this? No, she was toying. She was playing. She had to be. Her eyebrows knitted together as she watched Alistair roll around in the middle of camp, Pilot leaping on top of him, licking his face with glee. The sight of it tore her in half, guilt and joy in equal measures. “Surely not,” she shook her head and looked back over at the woman next to her.

“What, do you imagine he prefers Morrigan’s company?” Leliana joked, eliciting an involuntary snort of laughter from the Warden.

No. In truth, she imagined that he far preferred Leliana’s company. The two had started sharing prayer times, bonded by devotion and the depths of their faith they had found in the face of so much loss. They often walked together now, laughing and joking good naturedly; and though it was madness to be upset about the fact that her companions were – well, companionable – Thomasyn couldn’t stop the knot in her stomach from tightening every time Alistair smiled at her. It felt like someone was stabbing her with her own dagger. But surely…surely she couldn’t blame him. Leliana was twice as pretty, far more worldly, and entirely more experienced that she was.

“We should finish setting camp before it gets any darker,” Thomasyn murmured, pushing herself up from the stump. “Forgive my outburst? I am more tired than I thought.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Leliana offered, reaching up to touch Thomasyn’s arm.

“That’s kind of you.” Tucking her hands into her elbows – and well out of reach – Thomasyn shuffled off across the clearing and set about putting up her tent.


	4. Breakfast

            Making camp in the Deep Roads had proven to be an interesting task. While they were always safe from the elements, they were never safe from darkspawn, and the debate over which was worse – waking up covered in mud versus waking up to an attack – was still up in the air.

            Alistair and Thomasyn had taken first watch and were now curled up in the corner of the small room they had chosen to settle in for the night. Bed rolls set securely a foot apart, they had fallen asleep mid-conversation and the last thing Thomasyn remembered before her eyes shut was the quiet smile across Alistair’s face.

            The first thing she woke up to, however, was the heavy feeling of an arm laid over her waist and breath on her neck. Her eyes shot open and she found Alistair’s arm tucked tightly around her – realizing that her shoulder was leaning back against his chest. Too frightened of waking him, her eyes darted around them frantically. What in the Maker’s name had happened last night that she didn’t remember?

            But no, they were still tucked into their individual bed rolls, thin blankets separating him from her. Slowly, very slowly, she registered the feeling of something warm and hard against the small of her back. Her eyes pulled wide and she shot straight up on her bedroll, dropping his arm on the stone below.

            “Hmm?” Alistair grunted. Opening one eye, his mind snapped to at an instant, registering Thomasyn next to him, the stretch of his arm, and her pillow pulled up next to his head. And then he immediately pulled his entire blanket up over his lap with a nervous squeal.

            “You’re devastatingly charming when you’re embarrassed,” Zevran called from the fire a few yards away.

            “I’ll thank you to keep your teasing to yourself,” Alistair dug his palms into his eyes and groaned. Thomasyn was already rolling up her things and trying not to look at him. “I’m so sorry…” he muttered, shaking his head violently. “It uh…” he nodded at his lap. “Uh…has a mind of its own…so to speak.” She could see now that when he was embarrassed, it wasn’t just his ears that went pink. His blush extended all the way down to his perfect shoulders. “Maker,” he groaned. “Please. Please forgive me. I don’t even know how we ended up…sleeping…together…like that.”

            “You both move around a lot in your sleep, that’s how!” Oghren had a hearty laugh over the whole thing.

            They looked at each other: young, awkward, and flustered beyond belief. “I’m sorry,” Alistair said again. He looked like a puppy who knew he had misbehaved: waiting patiently and dejectedly for a tap across the nose. Eyes turned down, bright pink from ears to shoulders. _Maker, those shoulders…_

            “It’s, uh,” she stammered, suddenly driven to distraction by the fact that he had no shirt on. “It’s okay.” She was the one blushing like mad now, and she could feel her face burning hot. “It’s just a –” She swallowed her smart remark (hadn’t Fergus protested against a scolding from Mother Mallol once during his teenage years that he couldn’t be held accountable for his hormones having a mind of their own?). “I’ll pack up so you can…um,” she stifled a giggle. “I’ll let you have some privacy.”

            He chanced looking over at her, and they shared an embarrassed grin. She stood up and ambled over to the amazing smell of Oghren’s full breakfast spread, relishing the lingering feeling of his arm on her waist, inhaling the scent of wood smoke and sunshine that always seemed to hang on him, even after the two weeks they’d spent underground.

            “Sleep well?” Zevran wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as she sat down and helped herself to a chunk of bread and a few slices of cured meat.

            “As a matter of fact, I did,” she was still trying to tuck away her smile, pushing it back into the corner of her mouth so it wouldn’t be so obvious. She really had had her best night’s sleep in months.

            “Ah, to be young and in love,” the elf chuckled indulgently and raised his cup to her in salute.

            “None of that,” she shook her head ruefully.

            “None of what?” Alistair was now safely tucked into his armour and plopped down cross-legged next to her in front of the dwindling campfire.

            “Good night’s sleep, kid?” Oghren sniggered.

            “Uh,” Alistair flicked his gaze over at Thomasyn before allowing himself a breathy laugh. “Yes,” he admitted.

            “No nightmares?” She asked quietly. Lately, his had been worse.

            “No.” He smiled slightly.

            “Good.” With a nod, she lighted her hand on his knee for a split second, hesitating. “Me either.”


	5. Frost

            “Stupid…sodding…filthy…darkspawn!” Thomasyn was kneeling on the bank of the river, scrubbing blood off of her armour, grunted and grumbling and cursing under her breath. Nothing else stained and stuck like darkspawn blood, _nothing_. It was filthy and smelly, and deep down she was still a spoiled noble girl used to smelling like flowers and wearing silky dresses. This was all so new. They had barely moved south from Orzammar, heading to Redcliffe to resupply and talk to Arl Eamon. How could she even waste her breath grumbling over small chores when the threat of complete destruction hung over all of Thedas? She scrunched her face into a ball to keep from pouting and remembered that she had promised her parents she would do this. She had promised Duncan to succeed. She had a half dozen companions counting on her. She owed this to Alistair.

            Dirty armour was the least of everything. _Just deal with it_ , she told herself sternly. _What would Fergus say if he heard you complaining about having to wash something?_ She had to laugh at that. He would ruffle her hair and add his own armour to the pile if he were there. “Good for you,” he’d say. “Gives you discipline.” And then he’d lean against a tree trunk, throw his arm over his eyes, and go to sleep. Maker, but she did miss him.

In her frustrations, she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, crunching the thin layer of frost that had formed over the dirt and dead grass. Alistair hesitated: she wasn’t in the best of moods. Maybe this wasn’t the time. Maybe he should just leave her be. His hand opened and closed around the little stem he held, looking down on it in dismay. This might be the stupidest idea he’d ever had, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. _Do it,_ he thought, willing his feet to shuffle forward.

“Hey,” he said softly, when she turned to toss her clean greaves up onto the shore beside her. “Look at this.” She started, but softened when he knelt down beside her. “Do you know what this is?” He asked, timidly holding out a small red rose.

She eyed it, and him, with vague suspicion. “Is this a trick question?”

“Yes.” He said without pause, a wicked grin creeping over his face. “Absolutely. I’m trying to trick you.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Is it working?” And then, when she smiled, “Aw, I just about had you, didn’t I?”

“You’ve been thumbing that flower for a while now,” she observed shyly. He was always so playful, even in the face of all of the misery around them. It was perfectly endearing.

“I picked it in Lothering,” they both looked at the blossom, almost afraid to look at each other instead. “I remember thinking, ‘how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?’” And then he did look at her, eyes ghosting over her face gently. “I probably should have left it alone,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t. Darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it.” His eyes darting from her lips to the flower in his hands. “So I’ve had it every since.”

“That’s…” she glanced up and caught him just before he looked away from her. “That’s a nice sentiment, Alistair.”

“I thought that I might…give it to you, actually” he held out the blossom, carefully wrapping her fingers around it when she lifted her hand to accept it. “In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you.”

            “Thank you, Alistair.” She choked on the words, desperately scrabbling for something a little more coherent. “It’s a lovely thought.” _Sweet Maker, did you have to make him so lovely and sweet? Was it really necessary to make him so…well…perfect?_

            He grinned broadly when she took it. “I’m glad you like it. I was just thinking – here I am doing all this complaining – and you haven’t exactly been having a good time of it yourself.” They sank down onto the riverbank together, sitting on their heels so that they were almost eye-level. He was considerably taller than her, but her long limbs held her up to almost his height when they sat like this. “You’ve had none of the good experience of being a Grey Warden since your Joining. Not a word of thanks or congratulations. It’s all been death, and fighting, and tragedy.” He scooted his knees a little closer to her. “I thought maybe I could…say something,” he swallowed hard and reached out to touch her arm. “To tell you what a rare, wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this…darkness.”

            “So,” she gently covered his hand with hers, lacing their fingers together and holding their hands between them. “Are we married now?” She broke out into a wide, laughing grin. The seriousness of the moment – the tension – it had to be broken. She wasn’t used to seeing him like this. He was always so jovial, so lighthearted.

            He laughed out loud and blushed a little, letting the smile wash over him. “Oh, you won’t land me that easily, woman.” He puffed up his chest dramatically. “I’m quite the prize, after all.” And then, with a quirk of his eyebrow. “No need to start crying on me…or anything.” When she didn’t let go of his hand, he deflated a little, completely unsure of where to go next. She had turned to teasing him, but she wasn’t letting him go. “I guess it was, uh, just a stupid impulse. I don’t know,” he shook his head. “Was it…the wrong one?”

            “No,” she squeezed his fingers reassuringly. “It wasn’t. Thank you, Alistair.”

            “I’m glad you like it,” he squeezed her back. “Now…uh…if we could move right on past this awkward, _embarrassing_ stage and get right to the steamy bits, I’d appreciate it.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously with his free hand and tried to sound like he meant it, if only a little.

            She had to laugh. “Right,” she reached out to unbuckle his pauldrons. “Off with the armour, then.”

            He giggled. Actually giggled with anxiety and pulled slightly backward, just out of reach. “Bluff called.” And then, as though he were speaking to the woods. “Damn, she saw right through me.”

            Thomasyn wasn’t about to let his one go, though. They had been dancing around each other for months now. “You’re so cute when you’re bashful,” she murmured.

            “I’ll be…uh…” he was astounded by her reply, she could tell from the way his eyes widened. “I’ll be standing over here…until the blushing stops…just to be safe.” He got to his feet gracelessly, dropping her hand with obvious reluctance. “You know how it is.” He hoped she did, at least.

            “Alistair?” She was on her feet behind him in an instant.

            “Hmm?” He turned around and she was so close that they were practically chest to chest.

            “I was wondering,” she inhaled sharply at the proximity of him – his warmth washing over her. “How did you keep it so…fresh?” She still had the rose in her hand.

            “Oh,” he chuckled softly. “I asked Morrigan how to keep plants fresh…told her it was for healing herbs, but…well…it was,” he scratched his neck again. “It was because I was too nervous…you know…to give it to you right away.”

            Whatever she had expected him to say, that wasn’t it. She lifted herself up onto her toes; carefully leaning in a little and brushing her lips against his cheek. His skin was soft, despite the rasp of stubble, and more than a little hot from his habitual blushing. “Thank you,” she murmured.


	6. A Place to Belong

            She sat back on her heels, shrinking away from the fire ever so slightly. “Do you really want to know?” She asked him.

            “Of course I do.” It was an honest answer. They’d just gotten through an awkward conversation about how they both had feelings for each other, why would she think he didn’t want to hear what she had to say?

            “I’m not sure you’ll like it,” she confessed. She twisted her mother’s ring around her middle finger and sighed. “It’s the reason I’ve been so hesitant about…” she closed her eyes tightly. “About telling you how I feel.”

            His mind began to spin. _She was betrothed already. Worse, she was married. She was secretly slipping in and out of Zevran’s tent every night between the end of their watch and the packing of camp the next morning._ The possibilities played out endlessly in his head.

            “Now,” she began, tucking her hands between her thighs nervously. “You have to understand – this is entirely in my own head. There isn’t someone else.”

            _Maker’s breath, she can read my thoughts clean enough off of my face_ , he thought.

            “Being a nobleman’s daughter,” she began with a resigned sigh. “Certain things were expected of me: manners, deportment, social graces, things like that. I wasn’t terribly good at them, but I was expected to abide by them. Even as a child, I preferred to wrestle with Fergus and the other squires on the practice fields, rather than learn to sew.” The memory brought a small smile to her eyes. “Of course, I was no good at fighting then, either, but I vastly preferred it. Anyway, when I turned sixteen my mother threw a ball. She said it was time for me to start thinking about suitors – about picking out a husband. A _good_ husband, she said.” Her fingers wiggled around where she had tucked them between her legs and she put a little more weight on her arms.

            “She insisted on introducing me to a dozen or more men – noblemen, noblemen’s sons, anyone with a title and a decent fortune. She meant well, of course, she was thinking of my comfort and my security. Fergus would be the next teryn, so all I needed was a wealthy husband who would treat me like a person instead of property. Sadly, those are hard to come by.” She sighed. “My father had a squire. Roland was his name, but Fergus and I called him Rory. Rory had been invited to the ball by my father, intent on having someone there that I actually knew, and whose company I might actually enjoy.”

            She paused when Alistair fidgeted uncomfortably. “Should I stop?” She asked. The last thing she wanted was to make him upset, but she needed to get this out. She needed him to understand.

            “No,” he shook his head. “No, it’s okay. Go on.” He was edging on massive discomfort, but he wanted to know whatever she wanted to tell him.

            “Well, Rory and I were,” she chastised herself for being so shy about it. “We were fond of each other. We slipped out of the party and took two of the horses down to the lake. We stayed there all night, and the next morning my father found us, asleep under the trees.” She gulped. “Nothing happened,” she promised Alistair, before continuing. “My father swore he wouldn’t tell my mother, and he was as good as his word. Rory and I stayed friends…stayed close…until I was passing eighteen and my mother started making noises about how I needed to stop turning down suitors and choose someone before they all started thinking that I was self-absorbed or something.” Alistair snorted at that, no one in the world could possibly think that Thomasyn was narcissistic. “My father, who had been sheltering us from her eyes for two years at that point, argued that perhaps a nobleman was not a good match for me, and suggested I be allowed to be courted by knights. At first she protested, but she was getting so concerned about my prospects that she relented within a week.” Thomasyn stopped; a pained expression consumed her face. “Rory had been knighted by then, and he came forward immediately. He begged my father’s permission to court me, and he allowed it without hesitation.

            “The night that Arl Howe attacked…the night my parents died? Rory was leading the soldiers in the main hall. Holding the entrance to the castle with as many men as he could find.” She bit back tears, willing herself to finish the story. “You see – he’d asked me to marry him just that morning.”

            “Maker’s breath…” Alistair felt the wind go out of his chest. No wonder she was so hesitant at the idea of being close to anyone.

            “The last thing I did before I left him to die, was kiss him.” There was no helping the tears now. “It was the only kiss we ever had. And I’m not sure exactly when he died, but I someone…” she sniffed. “Someone sent me his ring at Ostagar. It came with a vague note. It was probably from one of the surviving soldiers. All it said was that he wanted me to have it.” She pulled a chain from under her tunic – a long strand of steel that held a wide silver band, engraved with a pattern of little waves. “I don’t know if I loved him,” she admitted, tucking it away again. “But I could never forgive myself if I was disrespectful to his memory.”

            “I’m so sorry,” Alistair was almost shaking, so overwhelmed at the unexpectedness of the story that he wasn’t sure what to do. “I won’t…” his voice caught. “I won’t ever push you. Ever ask you to…” He bit his lip, hard. “I understand.” He said finally. “And I want you to know that whatever you decide – if you think it’s too hard to be with someone else so soon…” his eyes grew a little wider, his expression a little more (if it was even possible) sincere. “I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

             “Alistair,” she slipped up to his side and put one hand over his. “I’m telling you this because I think I might be ready soon. Or at least,” she slipped her other hand into his. “At least…I’m seriously…seriously thinking about it.”

            “What?” He blinked at her disbelievingly.

            “It’s been months now, since my parents, and since Ostagar, and since we met. And I’ve been struggling that whole time with the fact that I didn’t have a home anymore.” She was fairly surprised that he hadn’t pulled his hand away yet, and she kept holding on to it. “You’ve given me a place to belong.” A smile creased his face at the thought of it. “I belong with the Wardens now. I…” she blushed. “I think…now…I might belong with you.” 


	7. Start

            They always waited until their watch to talk. Unless they were out scouting on their own, their shared watch was the best chance for privacy. At least the others were understanding enough to let them share first watch together. They had that, at least.

            Tonight they sat in relative silence, backs to each other, letting the comfort and proximity of the other wash over them like a wave. They had made a hard march today, putting a lot of distance between them and Kinloch Hold. They would be back in Redcliffe before midday tomorrow. And Wynne, the senior mage that had agreed to come back with them and try to help Connor, seemed friendly enough – if a little patronizing.

            “So…” After nearly an hour of sitting in comfortable silence, Alistair shifted, turning to face her. “After all this time we’ve spent together…you know; the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight…thing…hanging over us,” he bent one leg up so it was next to hers, repositioning himself to be just slightly closer to her. “Will you miss it, once it’s over?”

            “Alistair, there will always be more battles to fight somewhere,” he reminded him, toying with the Grey Warden badge affixed to her armour.

            “But, that doesn’t mean we would be fighting them together.” He touched her knee slightly. “I know it might sound strange, considering we haven’t known each other very long, but I’ve come to…” _Love_ , his mind screamed. _Love you. I love you_. He stifled the little voice as best he could, hearing his voice crack when he opened his mouth again, “Care…for you. A great deal.” His fingers grazed her again, and he was grateful to see that she hadn’t shifted away from him yet. Their friendship had been a little more tentative lately. They hadn’t really talked about their inclinations towards each other since she had told him about her betrothal, a few weeks ago. “I think maybe it’s because we’ve gone through so much together? I don’t know. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m fooling myself.” They looked up at each other and he saw her features were soft in the firelight. It was the side of her that only he saw – the vulnerable side. “Am I? Fooling myself? Or do you think you might ever…feel the same way about me?”

            She blushed, deep and red and smiling like a maniac. “Alistair, you know I already do.”

            “Well,” he slipped his fingers in between hers and gently pulled her towards him. “Is it too soon…for this?” Maker, he hoped he was doing this right. He tilted his head down to hers and lifted her chin up ever so slightly with his free hand, hesitantly brushing his lips against hers. She faltered slightly, either surprised by the gesture or unsure of responding to it, but in less than a split second, she sank into him. Her free hand flew to his chest and she tugged on his fingers, pulling his hand around to her waist. She was almost ashamed of how much she had wanted him to do this. Since the day she’d woken up in Morrigan’s cabin and found him healed and waiting for her, she’d known exactly how she felt about him. Thank the Maker she was finally becoming comfortable with expressing it.

            He made a little squeal of surprise when she pulled him closer but obliged happily, dragging her into his arms and venturing to kiss her more deeply. It didn’t seem to matter that neither of them had very much experience in this particular field – she was a natural – molding her lips to his and tilting her head ever so slightly to avoid his clumsy nose.

            “Maker…” he whispered, breaking away for a breath of air. "That wasn't...uh...too soon, was it?"

            “No…” she giggled quietly. “I, uh…I liked it,” she laughed again. “Clearly.”

            He was still gaping at her, eyes warm and mouth just a little swollen from the unexpected pressure of the kiss. “Maker’s breath,” he breathed, “but you are beautiful.” He lifted one hand from her waist to her cheek, brushing his thumb across her bottom lip. “I am a lucky man.” Shy smiles broke out across both of their faces, and she nudged her cheek against his hand, relishing the intimacy. “Now,” he cleared his throat, “let’s get back to…what we were up to before…lest I forget while we’re here.”

            “Alistair,” she exhaled on a little laugh, cupping his hand in hers and holding it to her cheek. “We’re on a very quiet, very _alone_ watch.”

            “Right,” he slid the hand down to her neck and pulled her closer. “No harm in enjoying ourselves then?”

            “Not that I can see.” She closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Andraste preserve her, it was bliss to finally be able to feel what she felt without guilt or shame.


	8. For You

            They were just finishing dinner, sitting around the campfire listening to Zevran tell lurid stories and having a hearty laugh when Alistair squeezed her hand discreetly and put his bowl down, headed off towards the edge of the woods behind them to find more firewood. She was so busy watching him walk away that she barely noticed Wynne shimmying up beside her.

            “You’re quite taken with each other, aren’t you?” She cracked a soft smirk at Thomasyn.

            The Warden snapped her head back to facing front, tucking her hands around her sides. “You know?” She whispered, “About Alistair and me?”

            The old mage laughed. “It’s hard not to notice the doe-eyed looks he gives you. Especially when he thinks no one’s watching. It’s almost too sweet for my taste, and I’m an old lady who should be who should be making lace hearts and fuzzy blankets with animal motifs.”

            “You’re not the average old lady,” Thomasyn observed.

            “No,” Wynne shook her head. “I won’t be making socks with pom-poms on them for you anytime soon, but that’s hardly my point.” She narrowed her eyes at the younger woman shrewdly. “I’ve noticed your blossoming relationship,” her tone turned stern. “And I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going. Alistair is a fine lad, skilled in battle , but quite inexperienced when it comes to affairs of the heart. I would hate to see him get hurt.”

            Thomasyn was positively affronted. “Are you suggesting I would hurt Alistair?”

            “Not intentionally, no.” Wynne shook her head again, turning slightly so she was facing the younger woman. “But there is a great potential for tragedy here, for one or both of you.” Her matter-of-fact approach to the entire matter – for that matter, the idea that she thought she had any right to comment on a relationship she had nothing to do with – was making Thomasyn stew. “You are both Grey Wardens,” she went on. “And he is the son of a king. You have responsibilities which supersede your personal desires.”

            “I’m a human being with emotions, not just a Grey Warden.” She knew she sounded a bit petulant, but it was the truth.

            “Love is ultimately selfish,” she peered at the girl through narrowed eyes. “It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one’s mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?”

            “You’re making things sound more dire than they are.” Thomasyn was all but gritting her teeth. There had to be a way to gracefully end this conversation, she just couldn’t think of it.

            “Nothing is certain.” The old mage stared back into the fire. “Not in these times. You cannot take anything for granted. I want you to be aware of this.”

            “Alistair and I can handle whatever comes our way,” she insisted. She was sure of it – they had made it this far, after all.

            “I have given my advice.” She rose to her feet, at long last. “Do with it what you will.”

            A few minutes of stewing in her own aggravation later, she stomped off into the woods to find Alistair. Where she found him, however, was relieving himself behind a large tree.

            “Oh, Maker’s breath…” she groaned, hearing the sound just soon enough to avoid seeing the action.

            “Thom!” He squealed, turning away from her immediately and hiding himself in embarrassment. “I…uh…what are you doing out here?”

            “I just got a lecture on the irresponsibility of our relationship from Wynne.” Her annoyance leaked through her voice with a hiss.

            “Our…relationship?” Alistair stuck his head out from behind the tree.

            “Well,” she shrugged. “What else would you call it?”

            “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess I hadn’t thought much about putting a title on it.” He was lying through his teeth. He’d been trying to think of a way to talk to her about it for the better part of a fortnight and not come up with anything. Thank the Maker she had brought it up herself.

            “I had to get out of there,” she shook her head as though she were trying to shake great cobwebs out of her hair.

            “I’m flattered that you came to find me, then,” he emerged from behind the tree looking sheepish but fully decent. He had an arm full of branches and seemed to have been ready to head back to camp.

            “Can we stay out here a while longer?” She asked, giving him her best pout.

            “Actually, I wanted to talk to you,” he set the branches down and motioned for her to come sit with him – the clearing they were in was strewn with autumn leaves that blanketed the ground and crunched when they sat. “I was thinking…back when we left Goldanna’s, you told me I needed to look out for myself more than I do. I was beginning to think you were right.” He huffed out a loud breath, willing himself to keep talking. “I need to stop letting everyone else make my decisions for me. I need to take a stand and think about myself for a change, or I am never going to be happy.”

            Maker’s breath, this conversation was not going the way she wanted it to. She had come out here for sympathy and a little coddling, and she had found him in a very serious mood, indeed. “Don’t let me influence you, Alistair,” she tore a few leaves with deft fingers.

            “No, what you said made sense. You were right. I should be looking out for myself more,” he snapped his eyes up to hers in a small moment of worry. “Or did I not understand you?”

            “No,” she shook her head. “But you don’t have to do what I say.”

            “I don’t have to do it,” he agreed, reaching out to brush their fingers together. “I want to. What you said made sense. I should have done this a long time ago.”

            “Anyway,” he shrugged, and the sheepish little half-smile returned to his face. “I just wanted to thank you. Being with you is the one bright spot out of everything that’s happened.” He cleared his throat and seemed to tense his whole body, “And I just wanted to say…you’ve been a good friend and I…” he held her hand with a squeeze. “I love you.”

            “You—?” She squeaked. “You…” The whole world seemed to slow down around them. Leaves drop more slowly, wind blew more quietly. She was swelling up like a balloon, slowly loosing her ability to contain the bubbling glee filling her up from her toes to the top of her head. “I love you, too.”

            “See?” He teased, “Was that so hard?” They collapsed into a pile of giggles, kissing each other wherever they could find skin and competing to see who could hold the other one closer.

            Breathless and red in the face, Thomasyn rolled onto her back next to him and sat up, still stifling giggles. “We should head back to camp…you know, firewood and all that.”

            “Right,” Alistair eyed the pile of branches he had accumulated and swooped down for one more kiss before he picked it up.

 

            A few hours later, the group started to turn in. Morrigan stood to cross to her own campfire, but stopped in front of Thomasyn and grimaced. “Do you realize that you have been smiling for hours, now?”

            “I have?” She knew she had been, but teasing Morrigan was one of the few true joys in life.

She pursed her lips. “Since the last time you and that fool, Alistair shot glances at each other, in fact. He must be pleasant enough in bed, for surely I cannot imagine anyone enduring his conversation.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Thomasyn winked playfully.

“I see,” the witch laughed richly. “Glad to hear it, then. ‘Tis a bit sickening to watch you two, but I imagine it at least takes your mind from our…situation.” She chuckled again. “Have it your way.”

“Morrigan. Laughing.” Alistair came and sat down next to her as soon as the witch was gone. “That’s never good.”

“She seems to think we’ve been,” Thomasyn waggled her eyebrows in imitation of his favourite suggestive mannerism. “Intimate. Who was I to correct her?”

“She does?” He cleared his throat several times. “And did you…what did you…say to that?”

“I told her you were magnificent.” She looked nothing short of highly pleased with herself.

“Ah, well,” Alistair tucked his arm around her. “No pressure there at all, is there?”


	9. Love

            Thomasyn stretched luxuriously. It was amazing to wake up in a bed, after months of camping and sleeping on the ground. Down pillows and soft blankets, and the warm bulk of Alistair curled up under her arm, snoring softly. She lifted herself up on her elbow and left a trail of kisses down his neck and shoulder, all the way down his arm. Sun streamed through the window and he groaned as his eyes started to open – throwing his hand up over his eyes and rolling over to tuck his head against her chest.

            “Good morning, sweetheart,” she murmured, kissing her hair.

            “Noo,” he groaned, snuggling into her a little harder. “Five more…” he moaned at the idea of getting up. “…years?”

            “You can’t sleep for five more years,” she giggled a little. That was Alistair – never a serious moment to be found.

            “I bet I could if I tried,” he protested. But his eyes were open now, and he was in very great danger of getting lost in her warmth. She was looking down at him with that singular expression of adoration that took his breath away. He loved the way she looked at him, it made him feel like he could do anything. Like he was capable and strong and, well, a hero. He leaned up just a little and pressed a kiss against her lips, tugging her close with one long arm. She hummed her approval and cuddled against him. Nothing in the world could entice her out of this bed, she decided. The Archdemon could bloody well wait one more day for her to relax, _alone_ , with her lover.

            But the loud knock on the door said otherwise. “Alistair!” The voice outside called, before hesitantly adding, “Lady Thomasyn?” It was Arl Eamon, summoning them for one last meeting before the Wardens and their merry band of miscreants had to be on their way again.

            Alistair groaned animatedly against her chest, before rolling his legs over the side of the bed and calling back, “In a minute!”

            Footsteps trailed away from their door and Alistair reluctantly got to his feet, shuffling towards the heap of armour and underclothes they had hurriedly tossed to the floor as soon as the door was locked behind them last night. “No rest for the wicked, hmm?” He joked, turning to face her while he dressed. She tugged the blanket self-consciously around her (she still was not entirely comfortable with him seeing her naked, even though they had been intimate now for more than a month) and smiled. “Oh well,” he smirked at her modesty but said nothing. “At least we’ll get one last hot meal before we leave.”

            “And a lecture, most likely,” she pointed out. The arl was not liable to be amused that they had spent the night together despite being assigned individual quarters. Like a father who was reluctant to let his son grow up, the arl was keeping a watchful eye on them both.

            “He’ll bluster a little, but I think he understands.” Now fully clothed in everything but armour, Alistair looked a little rugged and disheveled. His sleepy hands struggled with the laces on his trousers. With the blanket wrapped around her, Thomasyn crept out of bed and deftly laced up his tunic, careful not to catch any of the fine dusting of his chest hair in the laces.

            With a wicked glint in his eye, he gave the blanket a firm tug and dropped it on the floor. He gathered her up in his arms and dragged her against the plain cotton tunic, practically crushing her in a kiss. “I just wanted one last look,” he confessed, sliding his hands down her sides, grasping her hips under his calloused fingers.

            She braced her arms on his shoulders and pulled herself up for another kiss, deftly reaching behind him to where her smalls had landed – perched atop of the chest of drawers behind him. “Keep kissing me like that and we’ll end up very late for our meeting,” she warned, slipping out of his grasp to hunt down the rest of her clothing.


	10. Eternity

            King Alistair paced the floor of the throne room uncomfortably. It was, perhaps, his least favourite place in the entire building. He fiddled restlessly with the note in his hands, flicking the hard wax seal between his fingers and reading the address on the front over and over again: “Alistair, Denerim” that was all it said. But it was written in a tight, urgent hand – one that was incredibly unusual for his wife to have used. The body of the note was so short that she might have sent it on a simple card, instead of folding up a sheet of parchment several times over, as she was prone to do.

            _Ali— I’m so close I can taste it. Missing you every day, but I hope to be home soon. I love, love, love you. –Thom_

 

            She was an awful tease, if it didn’t turn out to be true. Almost two years she had been gone – two years out of the ten that they had been married. It was miserable without her. Every day was a chore to wake up without her. Every night was full of nightmares with her by his side. He was starting to think he might try to exist without sleep – the song rang in his ears day in and day out, making it impossible to rest. The note was fraying at the folds from his playing with it. He hadn’t gone a single day without it in his pocket since it arrived earlier in the week.

            “Your Majesty?” Bann Teagan poked his head into the room quietly. Alistair had been in a mood all day, dreading the prospect of dealing with the Orlesian diplomatic attaché that was arriving soon. Though he had vastly improved, Alistair was still not a terribly skilled diplomat. Thomasyn was the deft hand with politics. She would have been brilliant at this.

Alistair sighed and turned to his uncle. “Teagan?”

“Your Majesty, there is another messenger for you.” Teagan pushed open the door and let the young woman in. She was clad in blue, with dark eyes and light hair that she kept in a tight braid wrapped around her head like a crown – he didn’t recognize her, but she looked terrified.

“Come in,” he waved his hand, as invitingly as he could. He would never understand why people seemed to be afraid to speak to him. It was the crown, he had to remind himself, not him.

“She said it was urgent, Your Majesty,” the girl handed over a letter folded identically to the one he was already holding.

“Thank you,” he said, trying not to grab it out of her hand too greedily. He tore into it, careful not to tear the page, but dropping the wax carelessly on the ground. “King Alistair, the Royal Palace, Denerim”. He wondered why she had bothered addressing it fully this time.

_Ali— I’ve always hated the Deep Roads. Pray for me? I’ll need your strength for what comes next. I’m sending Pilot back to you. The girl bringing you this note should have left him with my maid. I have to do this bit alone. You are my everything, Ali. Keep our bed warm, my love. With any luck, I’ll be there to share it soon. –Thom_

“The mabari?” He asked, looking back up at the girl.

“With a maid,” she answered. She was shaking like a leaf. “As she instructed.”

It occurred to him, after a moment, that it was possible that this girl had no idea who had sent the letter. “Where are you from?” He asked gently.

“Antiva, Your Majesty.”

            “And where were you engaged to bring this note?”

            “Rivain, sire. That is, the coast. Just outside Llomeryn.”

            “Thank you,” he said, softly. And then he moved his attention back to Bann Teagan. “Bring her to the kitchens,” he asked. “The poor thing looks famished.”

            Her eyes widened at the prospect of food and she curtsied eagerly. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

As a last measure, he took a few sovereigns out of his pocket and handed them to her. “The woman who engaged you?” He put the coins in her hand. “Black hair, dark eyes, freckles? Wearing blue and grey armour?” The girl nodded. “That was my wife,” he smiled slightly. “I cannot thank you enough for bringing me this.” Holding the notes tightly in one hand, he headed off to the chapel to pray.

 

            Days turned into weeks. The Orlesian attaché came and went with relatively little incident, thanks to Teagan’s help. Alistair’s restlessness was growing by leaps and bounds. Two letters within the space of days, and now nothing for weeks. His heart ached, his head pounded with worry. He could feel a migraine coming on and decided the only thing to do for it was to rest.

            He made his way back to the castle from the garden path that he had been pacing, mechanically shifting one foot in front of the other, hands held tight behind his back, face lined with worry. Pilot pranced and plodded along next to him, nudging Alistair’s knees, urging him to go faster. He patted the mabari’s head mindlessly, waving for him to go ahead, and Pilot whined slightly before bounding off towards the castle.

            Alistair slipped carefully past the guards on the side of the building. He didn’t want to speak to anyone, and time and practice had taught him every nook and cranny of his home. Mounting the backstairs to the Royal Wing, he sighed and pulled at the back of his neck. This migraine might eat up the rest of his day if he wasn’t able to sleep it off.

            He slid back the double doors that cordoned off the suite he shared with his wife, and slammed them defiantly behind him. If there was anyone upstairs, they would know not to disturb him. Eyes on the floor, he tracked through the front room toward the bedroom.

            But the door to the bathroom stood open, and he could hear movement inside. As quietly as he could, he sidestepped the couch in front of him and slipped open the bottom panel of Thomasyn’s writing desk, sliding a small dagger out of its hiding place. His wife had a plan for every contingency, even for an attacker interrupting her morning correspondence. He padded across the thick rug, grateful for the muffling of his steps. He sidled up to the doorframe outside the bathroom and flipped quickly around the side, brandishing the small dagger in front of him.

            But there, wrapped in her red and gold silk robe, was Thomasyn. Damp hair pulled back into a long braid – much longer than he remembered it being – and still dripping a little on the stone floor. The full bathtub smelled heavily of rose petals and caked dirt.

            The dagger clattered to the ground as Alistair’s limbs went limp. He could barely breathe, the sharp pain in his gut overwhelming everything except his pounding heartbeat. Maker take him, if this was a delusion, he never wanted it to end.

            “Thom?” He whispered, afraid to scare her phantom away.

            “Since you weren’t here, I tried to make myself decent before you found me,” she smiled sheepishly and took a step toward him, clutching the robe tightly around her waist. She looked thin. Thinner than she’d been in years. And tired. Maker did she ever look tired. He still couldn’t breathe, he just stood there and stared. “Ali, it’s me,” another step forward. “Not a dream. Not a delusion. I’m home.”

            The sound that came out of him was a strangled, aching, crackling sob. He threw his arms around her and squeezed, weeping into her shoulder. “I love you,” he murmured, over and over again. “I love you, I love you.” It was ecstasy to say it out loud. Out loud to her. To her, wrapped in his arms.

            “I love you,” she whispered back. She couldn’t seem to let go of him. Now that her arms were locked around his chest, she couldn’t – wouldn’t – let go. She turned her head slightly to encourage him to look up. “I did it.” Her eyes were sparkling, though he couldn’t be sure if it was pride or love. “Ali, I found it.”

            Right now, he didn’t care. Truth be told, the only thing that mattered was that she was home. He pressed her into a kiss and let his mind go blank, shutting out everything in the world except her: the feel of her, the taste, the smell. He dragged her against him, body against body, lips against lips. She sighed deeply and he deepened the kiss, desperate to be as close to her as possible. Soon enough, they were both panting for air.

            “Ali,” she rested her hands on his chest and looked up at him. “I’m home. For good.”

            “Yes, you are,” he agreed blithely, trailing kisses down her cheek and neck. No matter what, he was never, never letting her out of his sight again.

            “No,” she laughed, catching his head between her hands. “Listen to me. I want you to come into the other room, drink the potion, and then we can lock ourselves in the bedroom. Okay?” Her eyes were filling with tears the more she spoke. She was bursting with everything – with the feel of him under her hands, his damp tears making her robe cling to her shoulder. With the ragged rhythms of his breath and the deafening pounding of his heart. Andraste save her, holding him was like being whole again.

            “Potion?” He asked, so lost in staring at her that he had lost track of what she was saying.

            “Come on,” she grabbed his hands and dragged him after her. Her pack, armour, and underclothing were stacked up neatly next to their dresser, and pulled a bundle of cloth out from the depths of her pack. Unfolding it revealed a small vial of clear liquid, almost like water. She held it out to him. “It’s a long story,” she said, pressing the vial into his hands. “I’ll tell you everything after, um…” she coughed, blushing a deep red across her cheeks, “after we’ve…reunited.”

            Alistair chuckled, drawing her back into his arm, and another kiss. “Missed me?” He teased.

            “Desperately,” she sighed into him.

            “Why potion first?” He asked, holding it up to the light. Little flecks of silver floated through it – he never would have seen them if he hadn’t held it up.

            “Because it,” Thomasyn laughed quietly. “Makes one rather…passionate.”

            “Passionate?” Alistair wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

            “There’s quite a bit of fenugreek in the formula,” she giggled and kissed him several times over. She simply couldn’t stop. The relief of seeing him again was crashing over her in waves.

            “You’ve taken it already?” He cupped the little vial in his hand.

            “I have.” She nodded.

            “How do you feel?” He tipped his head down, touching their foreheads together.

            “Like…” she searched for the words. She had spent weeks traveling back from Rivain trying to figure out exactly how to explain it to him – she knew he would ask before taking it. “Like how you feel when the sun comes out after an afternoon rainstorm.”

            He had uncorked the vial while she talked, holding it in front of him. “It works?” He asked one last time.

            “It works.” She promised.

            He drank it down in a single gulp.

            A wave of white light flashed across his vision and he staggered slightly, but Thomasyn was there with outstretched arms to steady him. His blood ran cold and then hot, breaking gooseflesh out over his skin. His breath strangled slightly and then his whole body seemed to fill with air. That one little vial held a world of contradiction. When at last the world stopped spinning around him he faltered again, tumbling forward and falling down on his knees, gasping for air.

            “Ali?” She was kneeling down next to him.

            “You’re right,” he smiled up at her. “Sunshine after rain.” He threw himself forward, laying her out on the rug under him and peppering her entire faces with little pecking kisses until she dissolved into a pile of giggles.

            Maker’s breath she had missed him. Missed this. Missed his silliness and his brightness and his smiles. She tugged him down on top of her, letting his weight crush into her and relishing how small she felt against him. “How do you feel?” She asked, wanting to make sure he was still okay.

            “Like ravishing you,” he grinned mischievously, sat back on his haunches, and picked her up in both arms.

            No one else in the castle even knew she was home until they went downstairs for supper hours later.


	11. Enthusiasm

            Thomasyn twitched anxiously behind her desk, desperately willing the ambassador in front of her to go away. Since she had arrived home last month it had been an endless parade of people helping her get back up to date on the two year’s worth of treaties and alliances and feuds she had missed. She tapped his finger along the bottom lip of her desk and nodded along with the ambassador’s drone. He was going on and on about the current difficulties Ferelden merchants were facing in importing goods from Nevarra, and the constant barrage of numbers and unfamiliar names was making her head swim.

            “Thank you, Ser Ambassador,” she finally interrupted him. “Would it be possible to get a report of these statistics for further study?” At least reading didn’t make her temples throb.

            “Of course, Your Majesty. I shall have it delivered to you this afternoon.” He rose, bowed, and left.

            “Thank the Maker,” she groaned, leaning back in her chair. She was suddenly exhausted and tempted to crawl into bed for a nap, but she knew Alistair would be back from his inspection of the guard soon. She leaned over the papers in front of her instead. In addition to all of her royal duties, she also had a host of Warden business to catch up on. She was, technically, still Warden-Commander of Ferelden: although Warden-Constable Howe had been doing well in her absence.

            Not ten minutes later, Alistair was shaking her awake. She had slumped over the neat stack of papers in front of her and fallen straight into a deep sleep. She groaned at the jostling until she realized who it was, and then she tugged his arm across her chest and set her head into the crook of his elbow. “Do you have more meetings today?” He asked, seeing the sleep still clouding her eyes.

            Warily, Thomasyn nodded. “Teagan thinks I’m too thin,” she griped. “He’s insisting I see the healer to make sure that I’m not ill.”

            “Good,” Alistair kissed the top of her head. “You _are_ too thin.”

            “I was wandering around Thedas on foot for nearly two years,” she pointed out. “The fact that any of you expected me to come back shapely is a little ridiculous.”

            “Go see the healer and when you come back we sort through some of this paperwork from Nathaniel.” He was an attentive king, of course, but deep down at his core he was eternally proud of being a Grey Warden.

            “Fine,” she pouted at him but got to her feet.

            She trotted down the hall begrudgingly, knowing she was in for a third lecture about taking care of herself. Her healer was an older woman, a talented former midwife who had lived in the Starkhaven Circle for most of her life before coming south just before the Blight. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” she was bright-eyed and cheerful today. Apparently just as glad as everyone else to have Thomasyn back at home. “If you’ll kindly disrobe, Your Majesty, and lay back, we can have this over with quickly so you can get back to your duties.”

            Kind and professional, that was what she liked about Enchanter Riley. Thomasyn shut the door behind herself, stripped down to her smalls and laid back on the cot in the middle of the room. She felt the warm pulse of magic flow into and through her blood as the enchanter slowly brought her hands down over Thomasyn’s feet, preferring to work from the bottom up. She made a few little tutting noises as she made her way up Thomasyn’s legs, clearly disapproving of something or other.

            When she reached the queen’s stomach, she staggered slightly. She held her hands there, eyes growing wide. “Your Majesty…” she murmured.

            Thomasyn opened her eyes and leaned up on her elbows. “What is it?” She asked blithely, only hesitating when she saw where the healer’s hands were hovering.

            “Riley?” She heard her voice crack slightly. “Riley, what is it?”

            “It’s…um…” the old woman’s face betrayed nothing. “I think it’s best we call for the King.”

            All Alistair had heard from the messenger was “Her Majesty”, “healer”, and “immediately”, and he had come bolting through the door in less than three minutes.

            “What’s wrong?” He gasped for breath, shutting the door behind him and kneeling down next to his wife all in one fluid motion. Thomasyn held onto his hand for dear life.

            “Your Majesties,” Enchanter Riley had her hands folded calmly in her lap. “The Queen is currently four weeks pregnant.”

            Alistair crumpled backward, knocking against the wall as the wind flew out of him. Thomasyn found herself immediately sobbing uncontrollably. “Are you sure?” She struggled for breath.

            “Yes, Your Majesty.” She had never been more certain of anything in her life.

            “Could we have a moment?” Thomasyn asked.

            “Of course.” The woman nodded and rose to leave.

            “Riley?” Thomasyn stopped her at the door. “Not a word, please?”

            “Of course.” She nodded again and slipped out into the hall.

            “By the Maker…” Alistair’s voice was barely a whisper.

            She dragged him up by the hand she was still clutching, and he lay down next to her on the cot. Laying there, holding each other and not quite holding back tears; they couldn’t stop smiling.

            “I didn’t think it would happen so quickly,” Alistair murmured. “I mean, I hoped…but Maker’s breath, I didn’t know if it would even happen at all.”

            “We didn’t exactly lose anytime in trying,” she pointed out.

            “No,” he laughed, “I suppose we didn’t.”

            “Ali,” she tiled her chin up to look at him. “Are you—”

            He swallowed the end of her sentence in a kiss. “I’m ecstatic,” he assured her. He pressed a hand to her belly and a few more tears fell down his cheeks. “I’ve been dreaming about this for eleven years…”

            “Eleven?” She propped herself up on one elbow and slipped her other hand around his waist.

            The tips of his ears pinked ever so slightly. “You know how long I’ve been in love with you,” he teased.

            “Remind me,” she nestled herself into the crook of his arm.

            “The morning I woke up in Morrigan’s cabin, and you hadn’t woken up yet. And I had a horrible flash of what I would feel – how I would feel – if you never woke up at all.” He nuzzled her temple and peppered it with kisses. “That’s when I knew I was falling in love with you.”

            “Ali,” she caught his lips before he moved his head, pulling him closer and sighing against him. “Ali…we’re going to have a baby.”

            He still had one hand softly on her belly. “It’s a miracle,” he breathed.


End file.
